


The Rake and the Coquette

by eldritcher



Series: The Journal of Fingolfin [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:34:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maglor and Galadriel are authoring the Elvish Kama Sutra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rake and the Coquette

Set during the Time of the Trees. This is after The Experiment and assumes that Galadriel and Maglor are in the process of co-authoring an elven version of the Kamasutra. 5 drabbles with 500 words each. My first ever drabbling attempt.

1\. Of Rakes  
2\. Of Chewable Tongues   
3\. Of Dares  
4\. Of Banquets  
5\. Of Gifts

 

Of Rakes:

Nerdanel coughed to alert them, a smile lingering on her lips as she did so. Seated on the large bed, lost to the world, they faced each other, their gazes ardent as fingers explored the contours of fine-boned features. Nerdanel suppressed a laugh as they pulled away from each other and smoothed down their attire and hair with sheepish expressions.

“We were just-” Maglor began, his customary pallor ruffled by an embarrassed flush.

“It’s nothing!” Galadriel broke in hastily. “I was asking him to brush twigs away from my hair, you see.”

“I do see,” Nerdanel said, watching their blushing faces with amusement.

“I am going. I have to go.” Galadriel did not look at her cousin as she ran out of the chamber, not even gathering the presence of mind to take her shoes with her. 

“Mother,” Maglor sighed. “You could have knocked.”

“Then I would have missed this delightful scene,” Nerdanel remarked. “It wasn’t my intention, actually. You were supposed to escort me to my father’s.”

He clapped a hand to his head and exclaimed contritely, “I forgot!”

“I know you did,” she laughed. “You were distracted by someone.”

“Do you mind?” Maglor asked hesitantly. 

“No.” Nerdanel stepped into the chamber and neatly made her way around the clothing strewn on the floor. Maglor sighed as he walked into her open arms and rested his head against her shoulder.

“Did you tell your father?” 

“No,” he admitted. “I am waiting for a suitable opportunity.”

Nerdanel smiled knowingly as unclad feet rushed back to the chamber and a breathless voice whispered, “I forgot my shoes.”

“I will ask someone else to escort me.” Nerdanel stepped back. “Make sure that you are an ideal host to your cousin, Macalaurë.”

He smiled and held the door open for her. 

As she walked away, their melodious voices wafted down to her.

“What did she say?” Galadriel was asking anxiously.

“It is all right,” he was assuring her.

“Thank Eru! I was afraid. Weren’t you?”

“Of course not,” he was saying with his customary calm. “I know my mother.”

Nerdanel shook her wryly, torn between those warm pangs of maternal love and mild exasperation at his declaration.

Grimy hands, bearing the soot of the forge, embraced her from behind and she leant back against the hard, warm chest with a sigh.

“Your son is an arrogant rake.” She turned in his embrace and looped her arms about his neck, inhaling deeply of his sweat.

He raised an eyebrow, exclaiming, “Why are they my sons when they do something scandalous while they are our sons when they are well-behaved?”

“Because you are a rake, dearest Fëanáro!” 

He muttered something about the colourful language of a smith’s daughter before asking with genuine curiosity, “Which son of mine is the arrogant rake?”

And from the upper chambers came a hoarse feminine shout, “MACALAURË!” followed by a long drawn-out cry of completion in a male voice that left no doubt as to the identity of the rake.

 

Of Chewable Tongues:

Maedhros was at the verge of pulling out his hair by the roots, for so deeply vexed was he. Numerous attempts by his brother to calm him down had failed miserably. Maglor was sure that Maedhros would wear down a hole in the carpet with his frenetic pacing.

“Be still for a moment, will you?” he called out exasperatedly. 

Maedhros halted and glared at his brother before continuing his pacing with vehemence. 

“Is it something to do with your woman?” Maglor speculated, delighting in the high flush that coloured his brother’s face at those words. 

“I have no idea what to do with that irritating, simpering creature!” 

“Lady Telpilótë,” Maglor said reprovingly, “is a fine specimen of a woman and shall not appreciate being called a creature.”

“She asked me to kiss her, Macalaurë!” was the plaintive complaint.

Maglor sighed and gathered whatever paltry reserve of his patience remained before asking, “Why do you sound surprised? You have been blatantly flirting with her at the courts and in the city. Her mother asked our mother if it was an appropriate time to broach a marriage.”

“Tell me she didn’t!” Maedhros all but fainted, clutching the bannister with convulsed fingers.

“She said she would bring the matter to Father’s notice.” Maedhros stared at him with saucer-wide eyes and Maglor relented. “No, Mother said you are too young. There is nothing to fear.”

“Thank Eru!” Maedhros wiped off the sweat from his forehead. “You almost sent me into Mandos, Macalaurë!”

They remained in companionable silence, Maglor checking his reflection in the mirror and adding the final few accoutrements to his attire with Maedhros idly watching the scene.

“You look like a rake.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Maglor asked indignantly.

“You do!” Maedhros laughed and sauntered over to examine his brother with a critical eye. “Where are you going?”

“Strictly a personal concern,” Maglor huffed.

“Indeed,” Maedhros purred knowingly. Maglor rolled his eyes and leant closer to the mirror to fiddle with his collar.

“What shall I tell her?”

“Kiss her and be done with it,” Maglor advised. “No use prolonging it.”

“I don’t know how,” Maedhros admitted, keeping his gaze strictly on the collar of his brother’s robes.

“You learn your way around and get better with practice. Start slow, and then build up your pace.” Maglor shrugged, his expression sagely.

“What if I do it all wrong?” 

“Just don’t chew her tongue,” Maglor advised.

“Chew her tongue!” Maedhros choked and closed his eyes disgustedly. “What does kissing have to do with her tongue?”

“Macalaurë!” An exasperated cry made Maglor’s elegant fingers fumble with the collar and he cursed.

“You are worse than a woman!” Galadriel exclaimed as she walked towards them, her features alight with an inner glow as she gazed fondly at Maglor.

“You are beautiful,” Maglor said quietly as he stared at her reflection in the mirror. 

Maedhros raised his eyes to the ceiling with a long-suffering sigh before leaving silently, his thoughts revolving around kisses and chewable tongues.

 

Of Dares:

“I was wondering if-” Galadriel began wistfully.

“When you start a sentence thus, I fear for us!” Maglor laughed; they walked hand-in-hand along the banks of the stream, their bodies leaning in towards each other.

“You discourage me so.” She glared at him, the full effect of that spoilt by the shudder that wracked her when clever fingers whispered a seductive path down her spine.

“It is just as well that you are far above my discouragement. But what was it that you were wondering?”

“Can... can we try it in your father’s forge?” The words came out in a rush and she determinedly stared at the sky.

“I beg your pardon!” Maglor rasped, his vivid imagination carrying him along. 

“Be adventurous!” 

“I am, sufficiently so.” He shook his head. “That dark, hot place is father’s sanctum. He will roast us in his furnace if we even dared touch his tools. Anyway, why do you want to? There are countless other places to try out.”

“I shall race you to the beech tree. If I win, we will risk it.” She gave him a challenging look and the pride in him would not allow him to decline. 

“I dare you,” she added for good measure.

He gave an explosive sigh and nodded assent.

“Don’t cheat,” she warned him. 

“I won’t, provided you don’t.”

Later, they gasped for breath and glared at each other, their gazes unyielding. Galadriel raised her eyebrows and muttered something underneath her breath about ‘bad sportsmanship’. Maglor threw his hands up in eloquent defeat.

They crept into the forge and made their way to the large work table.

“What now?” he hissed, half-expecting to see his father pouncing upon them from one of those dark corners.

“We do what we came to do.” 

 

“Wake up!” 

An urgent voice recalled them to the world from their pleasant post-coital reverie. Maglor had never been an early riser. He shifted comfortably to bury his face in the thick tresses of his partner. Galadriel stirred herself and blearily recognized their grandfather’s features. 

“Get out of here before he comes!” Finwë hissed at them, and muttered curses as he raced around the forge, trying to find all the pieces of scattered clothing that seemed to have a knack of spreading themselves about at the maximum distance from one another.

“Father?” Fëanor bounced into the forge, his countenance positively aglow. 

He stopped short at the sight before him and brought his hand to cover his gaping mouth. He closed his eyes, opened them again and shook his head as they gave him the same view. Maglor weighed his options; he did not have any. 

“What are you doing?” Fëanor managed to rasp.

“You did always ask me to join you in the forge,” Maglor said innocently.

“YOU DARED TO-”

“Fëanáro,” Finwë interceded hastily.

Fëanor took a deep, calming breath followed by several deep, calming breaths. Finally, he whispered, “Clean up, leave my forge. Never, ever, step in here again, I beg of you.”

References:

*Galadriel and Maglor, in The Song of Sunset, always maintain that they have never stepped inside a forge. Well, they are both accomplished liars.

 

Of Banquets:

“I am worried.” Fëanor sighed and looked despairingly at his wife. “They will do something scandalous.”

“Do you refer to Tyelkormo and Irissë?” Nerdanel asked. “Don’t worry. They have been grounded as a precautionary measure.”

“No,” Fëanor waved his hands irritably as he swatted an unfortunate mosquito. “I refer to the rake and the coquette.”

“She will never let you hear the end of it if you called her thus before her face,” she admonished him. “They are in love. And we behaved worse when-”

“I do get the point.” Fëanor hastily leant in to kiss her unfinished sentence away. 

The banquet was splendid, as were all the Noldorin feasts. Tales were shared, dares played out and the food tables made lighter as the people moved freely in the large hall.

“Here,” Fëanor shouldered his way through a bevy of simpering females in the midst of which Maedhros stood stone-faced.

“Thank you, for the rescue,” Maedhros beamed at his father.

“Just do me a favour.” Fëanor glared at the women and frightened them away before continuing, “Make sure that your brother doesn’t do anything scandalous. Ingwë and Olwë are here, and Arafinwë is waiting for a chance to rant at me about my parenting skills.”

“Which brother of mine do you refer to?” Maedhros asked irritably, displeased by the task.

“The rake,” Fëanor hissed. 

“A song, Macalaurë Fëanorion!” The shouts began, as they always did at any banquet where Maglor was present.

“Half of a song,” Maglor replied brightly, a vision in his stunning velvety robes. “The other half, my father shall render, if he has no objection.”

Maedhros narrowed his eyes suspiciously. But Fëanor said with good grace, “I shall not deny you, my son.”

Maglor grinned and went for his harp. The crowds settled into silence as he tuned the chords and went through the preliminaries. He bowed with a flourish and began, his dark gaze fixed on an upper balcony where a certain young woman stood transfixed, her slender frame wrapped in pure silk and glorious, golden tresses.

“I wish to sing for you,  
I wish to dance with you,  
I crave to kiss you hard,  
I crave to chance my heart!”

Galadriel was blushing, unable to help the very improper grin plastered on her features. Colour tinged Maglor’s cheeks too as he paused in his song, his fingers still playing on the harp and he nodded to his father, who was trying his best not to be the first victim to elven apoplexy.

“Fëanáro!” The crowds shouted. “The song!”

“I would be damned rather than completing my son’s love paean to her!” Fëanor spat.

“You should better give in,” Maedhros advised his father, adding a sanctimonious pat on a tensed shoulder for good measure. Fëanor snorted, before giving in.

 

“I live for your sweet smiles,  
I live for your brown eyes…”

“The lyrics say ‘blue eyes’,” Nerdanel remarked as they retired to bed much, much later.

“But you have brown eyes, my dear,” Fëanor said simply. 

 

Of Gifts:

She gave an irritated snarl and flung her book away.

“My dear?” An overprotective Finarfin rushed in at the sound.

“Nothing,” she said in a manner that loving fathers can immediately translate as ‘everything’. 

She sighed and leant her head against his chest when he came to sit beside her on the couch. 

“What is wrong?” 

“’Tis Macalaurë’s begetting day tomorrow.”

“Why are you upset?”

“Oh, Father!” She turned to bury her face in the front of his tunic and sobbed her heart out, as only much-loved, pampered, adolescent daughters can do.

“What happened?” His imagination granted him hundred different scenarios involving a cold-blooded son of Fëanor and a heart-broken daughter.

“I don’t have a gift for him!” 

“Eru!” Finarfin threw his head back against the couch and screwed his eyes shut

“Yes! I don’t know what I shall do.”

“Let us go to the market.” Finarfin tried to sound soothing and calm despite his exasperation.

“I went and there is nothing!” She sniffed and threw him a haughty glare before returning to her sobbing which was tearing his heart out.

“Father.” A muffled voice from below his chin distracted him from his tormented musings. “Can you help me?”

“You need only ask.” He ruffled her hair fondly.

“I want to make a flute.”

Finarfin peered down as he built a logical argument in his mind why a flute was such a bad idea. Then he saw those blue eyes aflame with hope.

“Then we shall make one.” He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead.

A long day of carpentry passed and Finarfin was grateful for the fact that he had only one daughter. She insisted on doing everything herself, breaking her skin sharp shavings. The sight of blood did nothing to improve Finarfin’s opinion of Maglor. 

Finarfin stood by as Galadriel rushed to greet Maglor, the gift in her hands. There had been no time to elaborately wrap it. He saw that Fëanor and Nerdanel had presented their son with a collection of flutes among many other gifts. Panic flared in his heart. What if Maglor failed to appreciate her sacrifices? 

“If you don’t, I’ll drown you in the sea,” he muttered grimly.

“Talking to yourself,” Fëanor began solicitously. 

Finarfin spared him a glare.

Maglor opened his arms and she rushed in, her laughter as melodious as his golden voice that murmured greetings. He pushed aside the wrapper and saw the misshapen flute within. His face remained inscrutable as he picked it up and felt it over with his fingers. Finarfin was mentally preparing himself for the inevitable.

Then Maglor looked up at her, wonderment shining in his suspiciously lustrous, dark eyes, his features eloquently moved and his lips parted in silent awe. 

“Do you like it?”

He gathered her scarred fingers into his hands and brought them to his heart silently. 

The sight of his daughter, golden and beloved, as she leant in to claim a kiss from her cousin, would stay etched in Finarfin’s mind forever. 

 

End Notes:  
Telpilótë – Silver Flower.  
Macalaurë – Maglor  
Fëanáro – Feanor  
Artanis – Galadriel


End file.
